Brothers
by homesweethomicide13
Summary: He wanted to hate him for being better, for being everything their father wanted, but he couldn't - because they had the unbreakable bond of brothers. Part of the Mix-It-Up Challenge.


**Title:** Brothers  
><strong>Author:<strong> homesweethomicide13  
><strong>Rating:<strong> T  
><strong>Pairing:<strong> None  
><strong>Warning:<strong> None  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> How I do wish.  
><strong>Summary:<strong> He wanted to hate him for being better, for being everything their father wanted, but he couldn't - because they had the unbreakable bond of brothers. Part of the Mix-It-Up Challenge.

**Brothers**

Steel clashed against steel, the clanging noise ringing loudly in the air before fading away into nothing, lost in the sounds of heavy breathing and muttered curses. The swords swung at each other again, only to meet with another loud clang before being sharply withdrawn. They struck again, lower this time, then swung in an arc, scraping against each other until they were lifted higher, and yet still pressed tightly together. With a pair of frustrated cries, the swords sprang apart, and were lowered, points aimed at the worn ground.

"This is useless!" The boy who spoke was tall, his dark hair hanging to his broad shoulders. He had a scowl on his face as he shifted his weight, his posture sinking from a combat stance to a more relaxed slouch. "We have fought together far too many times. I can predict your every move, and you can predict mine. Perhaps we should start training with others."

"But we have always trained together!" The second boy was shorter, but his hair was just as long – and he, too, had relaxed into a slouch, twirling his sword in his hand. "I just think you are making excuses for not being able to win. Face it; I am a better swordsman than you!"

"Like hell you are." The taller boy growled, his hand tightening around the hilt of his sword. "I am older, and more experienced. You are just used to my moves, that is all."

"Oh, but of course." The shorter boy rolled his eyes, clearly not believing the other. The taller boy shrugged, and sheathed his sword.

"We may as well end this session here, and head home. We are not going to get any more training done if we cannot even give each other a decent challenge." He turned from the shorter boy, and began striding off. Annoyed, the shorter boy also sheathed his sword and began to follow him. "We will not become great warriors unless we extend our training to other swordsmen."

"You are just tired of me. You have wanted to shake me off for years, brother."

"That is not true. I just want to be the best I can be – and I need a more challenging opponent. I am sorry, Glock, but you are just not worthy to be my opponent any more."

-x-

Glock sat on the hill beside the training fields, watching his brother battle against an older boy. He'd memorised his brother's skills by now, and could predict every single move he made. It had been three years since they'd parted ways as training opponents, but Gers had not improved his skills by much. He was still as predictable as always.

Gers was everything their father wanted in a son. He was brave, and strong, and had potential to be a great warrior. He received all the praise, and – to Glock, at least – was treated better. Glock, however, felt ignored and neglected. He knew that the firstborn son was always the apple of the father's eye – especially if they were a strong fighter, as Gers was, but he desperately wanted to make their father proud, just the once. Instead, he was ignored. At least, that's what it felt like.

He didn't hate Gers, however. He wanted to – had even tried to – but it was impossible to do so. Despite being the better fighter, and the better son, Gers was never cruel to him, and never gave him a reason to hate him. He wasn't deliberately trying to be better than him – it just happened that way. He'd tried to find things to hate about his brother, but whenever he believed to have found something he could use against him, Gers would do something to counter it, and make him adore him all over again.

Because Glock _did_ adore his brother. He looked up to him, saw him as an idol, and respected him. He'd never admit it, of course. He'd always pretend to hate him, and if anyone asked he'd tell them that he didn't care much for his brother, but deep down he knew he could never truly hate Gers.

They had grown apart during the last few years, but they had once been very close. Gers had looked after him when they were young, and when he'd been bullied by older boys back when he was very young, Gers had jumped to his aid and sent the bullies on their way with more than their fair share of bruises. Gers had shared ice cream with him on a hot day, had helped him learn to read, and had helped train him when their father had been too busy to.

Now, however, Glock rarely saw him. If he wasn't training with older boys, he was off in Jaliad with his friends, doing his own thing. There was only a year or so between them, but he seemed so much older, and so much further away. It wouldn't be long before Gers was due to find a bride, and make a new start with his own family. Would they ever be that close again? Glock doubted it.

He glanced down at his leg, scowling at the bandages wrapped tightly around his ankle. Normally, he'd be down there, training amongst the other boys and girls, but he'd overdone it last time and seriously injured himself, and now he had to sit aside and just watch. It was humiliating.

He made a promise, then and there, that he'd be a better warrior than his brother.

-x-

The sky was dark, and a large flying beast swooped down over Jaliad, screeching and howling in the night, its talons gleaming in the flickering light of several fires. Men dressed in grey with odd slings containing poisonous blisters pushed through the town, taking down the Jalis warriors as they fought back against them. Those who were not killed were taken away, unconscious.

Glock raced through the town, a sword in each hand, growling with anger as he took out several of the men, feeling his blood pumping in his veins, adrenaline urging him on. He knew this was the work of the Shadow Lord. He knew he had to fight with everything he had.

Somewhere in the town, his brother was fighting in the name of the Jalis. He had to do the same. He had to prove that he was just as good as Gers. He was a true Jalis, a born warrior. He would not run. He would stand and fight, in the name of Adin, for Deltora. If he died in the process, then it would be an honourable death. He was not afraid of dying. He knew he had to do his part in the resistance.

He took out another grey man, but failed to see the one raising a sling behind him. He turned at the last minute and realised his mistake – was this it? Was this how it ended? Would he die at the hand of this grey man? He had seen men and women fall to these blisters – it was not a pleasant death.

"I do not think so!" He stared in surprise as Gers charged towards the grey men, taking him down with one swipe of his sword. "You shall not lay a hand on my brother!" He turned and flashed a grin at Glock. "Always watch your back, little brother."

"I… I knew he was there." Glock scowled. "I was about to take him out. I did not need your help."

"Now is not the time to let your pride get in the way, Glock. We must fight together in order to win." Gers' eyes hardened. "Now, are you going to remain an immature little boy, or are you going to fight like a true warrior?" Glock remained silent for a long moment, and then raised both of his swords.

"Let us fight, brother." With matching devilish grins, they turned to face the army of grey men, and charged forward with a blood-curdling war cry, side by side – as it was always meant to be.

When Glock fell, bleeding, Gers saw red, and charged into the army of grey men, anger and despair ruling his heart and his mind. It caused him to make mistakes, and those mistakes were his downfall. The last thing he remembered was a knock to the back of his head – and then he was opening his eyes in a dungeon, trapped with a load of Deltoran slaves, branded by the Shadow Lord. He remembered seeing his brother fall, but he did not weep. He was a Jalis, and the Jalis did not cry – but he felt despair in his heart as he thought about his younger brother, and wished he had not strayed so far from him in those later years.

Glock, however, awoke many hours later to a burning, empty village. The men and women around him were all dead – he was the last survivor of Jaliad. He searched for his brother, but did not find him. He discovered his parents – dead at the gates of Jaliad, having been among the first to fall, and he spent a few quiet moments grieving them. Then, despair in his heart, he left Jaliad and hid amongst the wilderness, knowing that his entire race was gone.

It would be many years before he came upon Rithmere, and entered the Games. The crowd had believed him to be a savage monster, but the truth was that he was desperately trying to make up for his failure. He had not been a true Jalis warrior. His race was gone – dead or taken to the Shadowlands, and his brother was among them. He had failed to do his duty. He had to prove to the world that he was still capable of doing something good.

And he did.

He helped bring down the Shadow Lord – and watched as a new king rose up, proud and honourable. When Lief spoke of the slaves in the Shadowlands, he thought of his brother – it was one of the only reasons why he accompanied Jasmine in her search for the underground passage to the Shadowlands. And as he died after defeating The Fear, he no longer felt like a failure. He had hoped to see his brother again, but he did not feel saddened. He knew that if Gers lived, he would carry on in his place, protecting Deltora. And he would always be at his side, if only in spirit.

Because they were brothers. And brothers shared an unbreakable bond, no matter what the distance.


End file.
